


how to cope with the apparent resurrection of your big brother

by mycrofic (iceprinceofbelair)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Q is a Holmes, trans!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/mycrofic
Summary: Q freezes, fingers poised over his keyboard. He’s hearing things. He must be. He’s too scared to look up. But Sherlock’s presence has always been impossible to ignore and Q lifts his head and he sees him. Like, he really really sees him.





	how to cope with the apparent resurrection of your big brother

“Q?”

Q freezes, fingers poised over his keyboard. He’s hearing things. He must be. He’s too scared to look up. But Sherlock’s presence has always been impossible to ignore and Q lifts his head and he  _ sees  _ him. Like, he really  _ really  _ sees him. 

Sherlock is standing by the sliding doors (the ones which once masked the car that James Bond stole from him and took gallivanting around Europe), long coat billowing, hands in his pockets, and an infuriatingly exact picture of himself from two years prior. 

(Except it’s not because even from here Q can see that he holds himself slightly differently, like he’s worn down. He can see the way he’s favouring his left leg. He can see everything. He always can.)

Q stands, trying not to shake, and he walks. His steps are painstakingly slow but he’s terrified that Sherlock will disappear if he wants this too much. Every muscle in his body is simultaneously desperate to run and trying to root him to the spot. But he keeps walking. Slowly, slowly. And eventually he can almost reach out, can almost touch Sherlock, punch him if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t, not really. 

Instead, he falls forwards into Sherlock’s arms and clings to him, fingers bunching up the back of his coat because part of him is still so afraid that this can’t possibly be real. Sherlock’s strong arms are wrapped around Q’s thin body. He feels safe. And terrified.

“I hate you,” he chokes, tears clogging his throat. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Sherlock says and his voice fills Q’s lungs with tar. He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Any other time, Q might have been shocked to hear Sherlock apologise. But, right now, Q knows that anybody who didn’t feel remorse for letting their little brother believe them dead for two years would really have to be a sociopath. And Sherlock wasn’t, no matter what he liked to tell people.

Q clings to his brother for longer than he cares to consider. Neither of them say anything and it’s okay. The silence is enough as long as Q can feel Sherlock’s body, his arms, his breath. His heartbeat. 

Alive.

Eventually, Q pulls away, wiping at his eyes with the cuffs of his bobbly cardigan. It’s an old one he’s had since high school but it’s one of his favourites. Sherlock passes him a tissue. 

Sherlock never carries tissues.

“You knew I’d cry, you bastard,” Q hiccups. 

Sherlock smiles wanly. “Well, I’d hoped you might care enough to expend the effort.”

Q does punch him then but lightly, on the arm, like they used to when they were kids teasing each other about who had a bigger vocabulary. 

(It was Q, undoubtedly. But Sherlock didn’t like to lose.)

Q blows his nose and dries his eyes and his sobbing settles down to a dull ache in his chest. He looks Sherlock up and down, drinking in his figure, his eyes, his hair, his living body standing right in front of him. 

Alive.

Q starts suddenly. 

“Have you been to see Mycroft yet?” He asks, words tumbling over each other in his anxiety to get them out. He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “I have to call him. He’ll want to-”

“Q,” Sherlock’s voice stops him and Q glances up at his face. The truth is written there. And it breaks Q’s heart.

“He knew,” Q whispers. 

The enormity of the situation comes crashing down on him. His head hurts. His chest hurts. Mycroft  _ knew.  _ Mycroft knew that Sherlock, his  _ brother, _ was alive and never thought to let Q in on the secret. Q and Mycroft have had their disagreements - they can’t really be in the same room together without ending up in a raging fight which is why Q tends to avoid family Christmas dinners - but surely not even Mycroft would stoop so low as to keep something this important from him? 

“Q, please…” Sherlock starts because of course he knows where Q’s mind is heading. But Q isn’t in the mood to listen to Sherlock be a hypocrite right now. He’s always at Mycroft’s throat so why should this be any different. It’s not like Mycroft has ever neglected to tell Sherlock that his brother was actually alive and instead let him believe the worst.

Q turns his back on Sherlock before he can finish and storms back to his desk, sitting down heavily at his computer and typing furiously. Sherlock follows him curiously. 

“Don’t do anything illegal,” he says mildly but Q shoots him a look of disbelief.

“You don’t get to lecture me right now,” he snaps, the anger flooding in now that he’s gotten over the shock and relief. Sherlock, for once, doesn’t retort.

Q smacks the enter key with much more force than necessary and leans back in his seat, fuming. Not ten seconds pass before the phone on his desk starts ringing. Q snatches up the receiver.

“A little childish, even for you Lila.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Q growls and one hand flies to his chest automatically. He runs his fingers along it delicately and Sherlock seems to know what’s going on because he snatches the receiver from Q with a similar look of outrage.

“Mike,” he greets and Q’s anger lessens a little. He hears the mumblings of Mycroft’s response but he can’t make out what’s being said. “It’s been nine years. At some point, it becomes a choice.”

Q swallows. Mycroft calls him Q most of the time now but his occasional slip ups make Q see red. Pronouns, he could maybe understand since they don’t see each other much. But even their mother - a woman who is as forgetful as she is brilliant - hasn’t used anything other than  _ he  _ and  _ my youngest son  _ and  _ your brother  _ in over five years. 

Sherlock pulls the receiver away from his ear with a smirk. “Did you really-”

“Set that stupid photo of him with in the pool as the desktop background on all his staff’s computers? Yes. Yes I did.” Q huffs but the anger isn’t as potent anymore. The sad truth of the matter is that nine years is a long time to sustain anger at anyone, even his prat of a big brother who can’t remember his youngest sibling’s name or pronouns. 

Sometimes, Q is just tired. 

Sherlock drops the receiver back onto the cradle. Q doesn’t look up until he feels Sherlock’s hands settle over his own where they’re gripping the arms of his rolling chair so tight that the knuckles are turning white.

“I missed you,” Q chokes and it’s not difficult to admit it. Not now. Not to Sherlock.

Sherlock leans down and rests his cheek on the top of Q’s head. Q’s chest aches with everything he feels right now. He actually kind of wants his mother.

“I can take you home,” Sherlock offers with unfamiliar uncertainty. Q shakes his head.

“I’d rather not face that place yet,” Q says, thinking of the overflowing laundry basket and dishes in the sink. He doesn’t have the energy for domestic chores. He doesn’t have the energy for anything. He feels drained. 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully and then a shit-eating grin comes over his face. “I could always call that double-oh lover of yours and see-”

“Go away, Sherlock,” Q says loudly, pointedly returning to his work. 

And, for a moment, everything is just as it should be. Just like it was before.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm swamped by finals and everything is exhausting but inspiration for this just kinda his me so enjoy urself i guess


End file.
